


Brennu-Skalls Saga

by nimblermortal



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Gen, Norse Coriolanus, References to Norse Religion & Lore, at least for the prologue, in style of sagas, references to Icelandic sagas, specifically from the Nibelungenlied/Völsungasaga and the Saga of the Confederates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimblermortal/pseuds/nimblermortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick summary of the adventures of Sigurd and Gudrun, leading into a longer AU in which Svanhild Sigurdsdottir is shipwrecked on her way to Gotland, which leads to her transformation into a Norse Coriolanus.</p><p>Very loosely the Coriolanus AU it was intended to be. Some events cribbed from the Nibelungenlied/Völsungasaga and the Saga of the Confederates, and some characters from the Laxdælasaga. Agonizing failures of historical accuracy, such as the idea that drawing weapons at an Althing was <i>uncommon</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

There was a man called Sigurd Sigmundsson who was a powerful prince and a great warrior, and of his deeds much has been said. He married Gudrun Gjukadottir, the sister of Gunnar. They had a daughter called Svanhild, and it is said they had a son called Sigmund Sigurdsson, but this is wrong. Soon after this Gunnar killed Sigurd and he is out of this tale. Gudrun took her children and married Atli Mudzuksson. She had two sons with him, Erp and Eitil.

Atli invited her brothers to join them in a festival, but Gudrun urged them not to go. She cut runes into a ring warning them that Atli meant to kill them when they came, but Atli’s messenger marred the runes and the brothers came anyway. Atli had them thrown into a snake pit or carved their hearts out, according to his whims and despite Gudrun’s protests. In return, Gudrun killed her own sons and fed their bodies to Atli, then burned down his hall with himself and his many warriors still inside and fled to the sea where she cast herself in, hoping to drown. Instead the waves carried her to Sweden, where she married the king there, whose name was Jónakr. She had three sons with him, Hamdil, Sörli, and Erp. They grew to adulthood there along with Svanhild, who shortly became known as the most beautiful woman in the world.

When she was grown, a messenger came from Ermanaric’s court saying his king had heard of Svanhild’s great beauty and desired to marry her. He had sent his own son, Randver, to speak with her stepfather Jónakr on his behalf, and many precious gifts. Jónakr said he would ask Svanhild. Svanhild greatly admired the look of Randver and his warlike appearance and said she would do as her stepfather suggested. Jónakr agreed to the marriage and Randver left with Svanhild, promising an eternal alliance between their families.

On the way to Gotland, their ship was blown off course, and for several days there was nothing anyone could do in the face of the dark clouds. Randver in particular was very ill. When the sky cleared, it became apparent that they had great need of repairing their ships, and that they were near Ireland. Randver demanded that they land and ask for help repairing the ships, and said if help was not given they would take what was needed. Svanhild argued with him, saying that Ireland had often been the target of raids by her people and they would not be received kindly when it became clear who they were. Randver replied that the Irish knew nothing of his people, and so they should all tear their clothes as if the storm had done this so that they would not be recognizable, and not speak while he negotiated with the Irish. Svanhild did not like this plan and said she did not think much would come of it, but there was little other choice.

They pushed the boats ashore and went to talk to the Irish. The Irish claimed that since they had little choice but to land and seek aid, it counted as a shipwreck and all their goods, including the gifts sent to Ermanaric in honor of Svanhild’s marriage, were forfeit. At this Randver grew very angry and denied everything they said, and the Irish grew angry as well and raised their weapons. Randver retreated to the ships and Svanhild came to see what was wrong, since she spoke a little Irish and thought she might help. But when the Irish saw her great beauty, they recognized her immediately and realized these must be ships full of Swedes. They drew their weapons and stormed the ships. Because they were outnumbered, even the women took weapons to defend themselves. Svanhild had no armor but she also took part in the battle and defended herself very wonderfully. Everyone said it was quite astonishing how well she handled herself when she had never touched a weapon before. All the same she received a great blow on the head from the leader of the Irish that bled a lot since she was not wearing a helmet. Randver came immediately to avenge her, but was killed in the attempt. Seeing that the Goth had fallen and Svanhild beside him, the Swedes became enraged and fought even harder, driving the Irish away from the ships and killing a great many of them. They took their weapons and armor as compensation for those fallen and cut trees to repair the ships. Then they sailed home, taking Svanhild with them though they did not think she would live much longer.

When they returned to Sweden, Gudrun was very concerned for Svanhild and tended to her herself. Svanhild lay in bed for nine days without stirring. On the ninth day she opened her eyes and was completely healed, but there was left a great scar running across her face and all across her head, such that no hair would grow there anymore. At that her mother wept and declared she would never marry. Svanhild took a mirror herself and said this seemed very likely to be so, especially since Ermanaric’s son had died in her defense and so there was very little chance that their marriage would be honored. She declared that instead she would take the training of a shield maiden and live in her father’s image, and it is because of this that many people thought she was a man and called her after her grandfather, although this was not true. She also swore never to wear a helmet in battle, since she had already received a terrible head wound and no other would be able to touch her, and for this and for her scar she was thereafter called Skallhild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skallhild takes the common feminine ending -hild, meaning battle, and adds Skall-, which Egil's Saga tells us means "bald".
> 
> The style changes drastically after this; constructive criticism about this point in particular is heartily encouraged.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem was that no matter how many battles she won, Skallhild would never live up to her mother’s reputation. The more battles she won, the farther from it she grew; Gudrun had never won a battle, and had still married two kings and a hero whose worth outweighed either of them, and been the downfall of both her first husbands. Not that Skallhild wanted to be the downfall of her husband; she could even convince herself that she did not want to get married, that she would stay a shield maiden and an almost-valkyrie - forever.

Her mother, like so many others, seemed to have forgotten that Skallhild had ever been Svanhild the Fair, sought after by kings. She almost believed Skallhild was Sigmund Sigurdsson; she had called her that once, and in the pause that followed she had taken Skallhild’s face between her hands and said, “Oh, you remind me so much of your father.”

Gudrun had only ever loved one person; if Skallhild could bring him back to life for her mother, even for a second, she would vow silence as the Christians did and wear only chain mail for the rest of her days. Showing up when Gudrun asked was the least she could do, even if she had just been unloading her boat from a raid when the message came.

“Skallhild," Gudrun said, sweeping across the floor in one of those long dresses that made her look even taller than she was, and she took Skallhild’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “You look like your father in that armor.”

Gudrun had had the armor made for her, in the same style as Sigurd’s, lacking only the leaf on the back where he had not been touched by the dragon’s blood. Skallhild had heard that story so often, in her mother’s acidic, guilty tones, that her shoulder tingled with sympathetic pain at the thought of that betrayal. Gudrun never spoke of what came after Sigurd’s death; that she had learned from Jónakr and, embarrassingly, from Randver before he died.

“Mother,” Skallhild said. “I was just unloading my ship. I brought you this.”

It was the choicest treasure of the raid, and a successful raid it had been, too, falling from out of the blue upon an Irish monastery that thought them long since past. Undefended, its people had been easy prey for their warriors, and the treasures brought from it could be melted down into many rings. The necklace she offered her mother, though, had come straight from the neck of one of the petitioners to their dying god, the one who hung like Odin from a splinter of the World Tree but after eight hundred years had not managed to free himself of it.

“It’s lovely,” said Gudrun, hardly looking at it. Skallhild had gotten more praise for bringing her wilting flowers when she was six. She wondered if Gudrun might better rejoice if she described how she had won it, how the blood from its previous mistress’s neck had spurted like the flowers the necklace imitated. “Do you wish to know why I asked you to come so quickly?”

“Yes,” said Skallhild, “of course.”

“Your father’s godord is going to be open soon,” Gudrun said, and her lip curled as she added, “Ufeig Skidisson, the usurper, is on his deathbed.”

“He has sons,” Skallhild said. “Odd -“

“Ufeig is a usurper,” Gudrun repeated. “The godord should have gone to you upon your father's death. It’s what he would have wanted.”

Skallhild was silent for a moment, thinking of Ufeig, of whom she had only ever heard honorable words spoken.

“It’s what your father would have wanted,” Gudrun repeated, her voice almost hysterical. Skallhild went to her immediately and took her hands before she could rub them across her face.

“Then I will go to the Thing and raise my claim,” she said. “Immediately. Before unloading my boats. And all will be well.”

“Yes," said Gudrun, and smiled through the shimmer of tears. “You’re a good child. I’m proud of you.”

“I’ve done much to earn that pride,” Skallhild said, “and I’ll do more.”

 

Sailing to Laxardal was… nostalgic. The last time Skallhild had come here, she had been a child visiting her cousins. They had been envious of her long golden hair - the hair that no longer grew on half her head. She had learned to ride here, so that she could meet with them by the big rock on the heath, and she had learned to ride away here, so that she could meet Kjartan by the same rock and teach him how he would kiss when he married his Gudrun.

Her mother had stopped letting her come when she found out about Kjartan and the kisses. If Skallhild had been less caught in her own emotions, she would have known that was always how that particular adventure was going to end. In Jónakr's court she had learned to catch a man’s eye on purpose, and to do nothing with it, but it was here that she had learned the will she would later use to learn the sword, when her head was still spinning along the axis of the scar tissue stitched along it. It was here she had been happy, and learned how to be unhappy. It was here that she had learned the stories of Sigurd’s life, no mention of his death, and that she was and forever would be his daughter.

She wore his armor to the Thing. It was rude to wear armor to the thing, where weapons were always to be left outside, but it reminded people she was Sigurd’s child, and not just Jónakr’s ward.

And yet she had Jónakr to be grateful to for the armor; without his wealth she would never have possessed such a thing, nor been able to raid so successfully she had paid him back twice over for it. She felt guilty for wearing the armor, in a way her brothers never seemed to; but they were Jónakr’s children, and sons, and not spoiled by battle.

She ran fingers down the knotted length of scar along the side of her head before the case opened. It was not her only scar, but it was the most visible, more so the longer she wore her hair. She had taken a cowl against the chill of the thingstead, and because she could pull it over her head to hide most of that scar. She was still vain, when she could be, and it was the only scar not hidden by her armor and the warm clothes wrapped beneath and around that stiff leather. And she was tired of people trying to see the scar she was named for instead of meeting her eyes when she spoke to them, for all she ought to take pride in the marks of her battles.

She had consulted a good lawman, and knew exactly what to say, and her case was strong; she had nothing to worry about. She did not need to worry what they thought of her pride or her battles.

She spoke her case strong and clear, slowly so she could be heard; kept her feet spread at shoulder width, as she had been taught to address a court, and smiled at the judges when she asked them for their voices. She’d have them, too; she could see that in their faces. She could see it in the faces of those who had come to watch, the lords and their men, who saw her armor and her scars and her bone structure and the honor she had won for herself alongside it.

She could see it in the face of the man who had come at her mother’s summons (sent before Skallhild had returned, and how her mother must have fretted that she would not be back in time for the Thing), crestfallen as he realized his inheritance would be taken from him as Skallhild’s had been taken from her. He left before giving his answer, and Skallhild agreed to let the matter be settled the next day.

That night, she feasted with her men and with Hermund and Thorarin, both judges of the case,who assured her she would win. There was nothing more Odd could do, they said, and drank to her impending godord. Skallhild presented them with fine cloaks to show her appreciation, and a poet mentioned this approvingly, though in passing, as was appropriate since she was neither earl nor king.

One day the skalds would take heed of her, Skallhild swore to herself. One day they would have no choice.

 

Court the next day opened with Skallhild’s case. She watched smugly from the sidelines, her part over, as Odd came to hear the judges’ ultimatum: that the only compensation they would accept for the wrongs down to Skallhild was judgment from their number.

This was unheard of. Judgment could be given from one man to another, but from eight to one? Even Skallhild was unsettled by the idea, and much happier when her judges agreed, Hermund speaking for them, that this could be narrowed down to a judgment from two men, a much safer precedent to set.

“Then surely you cannot object if I am allowed to choose those who will pass judgment?” Odd asked. Thorarin looked sharply at Hermund.

“Let it be so,” said Hermund.

“You will regret that,” said Thorarin, which were words Skallhild did not like to hear. She took a step forward and felt a hand on her shoulder, one she quickly shrugged off - but she held her position now, kept her mouth shut as was proper as Odd went down the list of judges and the reasons they had to deny him fair judgment. She snuck a glance back, after he had unsurprisingly rejected Hermund and Thorarin both, to see who it had been. Jónakr stood behind her.

“Sire," Skallhild said in some surprise. He shook his head, just a little, and she shut her mouth again, scowling, as Odd accepted Gellir Thordsson as one of the judges.

“That does not bode well,” Jónakr murmured. “Gellir is a poor man, and easily bribed.”

“With tax money from my godord, I’ll warrant,” Skallhild said, “but it hardly matters; all the rest have spoken for my side already.”

“There’s Egil Skulisson,” said Jónakr, and Skallhild had to stop herself from laughing.

“That wretch? There’s not a man alive who’s asked a thing of him and come by it honestly; and those that are dead speak worse yet of him.”

“Between Egil and Thorgeir?” Jónakr asked, and Skallhild had to admit that Thorgeir had no head for law and had said from the beginning that he would be ruled by Thorarin.

Odd stood a long time between the two, weighing those same faults out loud, and then he chose Egil.

“Fool,” Skallhild snorted. “Thorgeir might have allowed Gellir to overrule him instead of Thorarin, but Egil?”

“There’s something in this I don’t like,” said Jónakr as the two departed to make their judgment and the crowd cleared to let a small case be decided in the meantime. It was a trifling matter of obvious adultery, and it had only to be decided which spouse was guilty.

“There’s nothing to fear; I have the judges’ voices already,” Skallhild said. “It is to their dishonor if they speak against me. But you - what are you doing here?”

“You did not come to see me before you left,” said Jónakr.

“That’s hardly call for a king to leave his kingdom.”

“There is the matter of my boys,” said Jónakr, and Skallhild bit her tongue. Her half-brothers were about the age that, if they had been born children of her father's land, they would have been brought to the Thing. It ought to be no surprise that Jónakr wished them to see law practiced. It still made no sense for him to come himself, and not send them with one of his earls. “And there’s my daughter, claiming power.”

“I am not your daughter.”

“Shield-maiden, then, or warrior,” Jónakr suggested. “You did not come to see me on your return.”

“I saw my mother,” Skallhild said. “I left orders for half my treasure to be given to you. Everything was legal and within both of our rights. Why are we discussing this?”

“You’re right; it was all legal,” said Jónakr.

“I have a trial to attend to,” said Skallhild, and got back to it.

Broddi and Gellir had gotten back to the assembly, and Gellir stepped before them and called for a general hush, and into this silence he said, “In light of all that has been said here, and that we will grow no wiser, we have chosen to award Svanhild Sigurdsdottir twelve ounces of silver.”

For a moment, the silence continued. Then Skallhild screamed into it.

“You son of a slave. Was it not insult enough to take my father’s life? Was it not insult enough that you should think to take his honor with it? Was it not insult enough to take his godord, that you would offer me the compensation of a slave for it? And you all - conspiring like a bunch of cowards who must always travel in a group, too frightened to even state your case openly, you who smile and flatter and lie, I will fight you all, you liars, you oath-breakers, you ill-fated - where is Odd Ufeigsson? Hiding at the back behind all of you, in the safest shadows? Bring him to me, I would fight him first -“

“Skallhild. This is the Thing,” Jónakr was saying in her ear, or shouting.

“Let it be the Althing of the All-Father for all I care, I will have his head for this, that ill-conceived bastard son of a -“

“I’ll answer what the woman has to say,” came a voice, and there was Odd across from her, the son of a dog and a deformed cockroach. “I’ll answer with my blade.”

“Answer, then!” Skallhild cried, laughing. “I’ll answer any blow you care to cast.”

“Gentlemen!” Thorarin thought that he might keep the peace, the traitorous goat’s dropping, and Skallhild could not be sure whether she had said that aloud or not. “You are at the Thing, this behavior is not tolerated here, you surrendered your weapons in the name of peace when you arrived…”

“Then I’ll fight him outside the Thing!” Skallhild shouted. “Will you take that, you mangy ill-begotten liar?”

“I’ll meet you wherever you say,” said Odd.

“Then take my hand,” Skallhild said, in a much lower voice, and shook off the hands holding her. “No, I’ll stand. I’ll stand and shake his hand, I’ll spit and shed my own blood to make this oath if he require it, whatever it may take to bind this oath-breaker to his word.” She shook her hands free and stood still as Odd was allowed to come closer, everyone’s eyes warily on the two of them; but nothing happened but a firm clasp.

“I’ll take your combat, and when I win there will be nothing left for you to grasp after, you pawing worm,” Odd said.

“I’ll kill you where you stand, you friend of trolls, for no one else would have you, and I’ll kill the trolls your friends as well, and I’ll pay no compensation for it,” Skallhild said, and only then dropped his arm. “Who has my weapons? Where must I go to reclaim them?”

It was a short walk to the edge of the thing, where a guard nervously pressed spear, shield, and even sword into her arms, and gestured for her to walk away from him. Skallhild took the arms he offered, looped the strap of the sword around her wrist so that it would be ready when she needed it, took shield in hand, and brandished the spear at Odd, similarly attired, but without Sigurd Fafnirbane’s armor. As a last gesture Skallhild tossed the cowl from her head, let the precious furs lie forgotten in the grass: she always fought bare-headed, where her enemies could see the scars of what she lived through, as she would live through their attacks as well.

She struck first, throwing her spear hard enough that it lodged deep in Odd’s shield, and raising her own to guard against the spear that thudded into it. When they ran into each other, each braced for the collision, Skallhild grabbed for her spear again and levered it until it snapped, feeling the wood of Odd’s shield creak and splinter at the pressure. Odd, in his turn, retrieved his spear from her shield, and they took steps around each other, each searching for a way in, Skallhild’s sword tossed up to her hand.

When they did meet, Skallhild took his spear on her shield again, angled up so that the spear could not settle so deeply this time, and sent her sword right into the crack left by the spear, so that it shattered around Odd’s hand and her sword came right down through the center of it, leaving a gash across Odd’s arm. She felt him jerk the spear out of her shield and let him have it, gripping it in both hands with the blood from one arm running down across the shaft.

She only smiled at him, and when he charged she slid around the thrust, let it come inside her shield - he was one man and what need did she have of guarding against small wounds? - took the spear on her bicep, blood for blood, so that she could cut under it and drive her sword between his ribs, or nearly; it jarred against them and she gritted her teeth, bracing as the thrust completed, and stepped back. He was dead and he knew it; she had only to pull the sword out to see the color of his life blood, if she had any interest in it.

She had no more interest than it took to see that he did not stab her with the last of his strength, so that she could turn safely back to the rocks of the thing and the small crowd gathered and shout, “Who next?”

There was silence for a moment, the silence of a large group of people not wanting to stand out, and then there was the silence of someone shoving his way through them and Skallhild flexed her fingers on the hand holding her shield. She was not expecting it to be Thorarin, unarmed and unarmored, who stepped out to meet her.

“I am,” he called. “In the name of the sanctity of the Thing-peace, I’ll stop you fighting before anyone else can.”

“Thorarin? I thought you a wiser man, and a more honorable one.”

“And I thought you had the honor to keep the peace you swore by entering,” said Thorarin.

“I did keep the peace.”

“If you do not keep the spirit of the peace, what does the letter matter?” called a whinier voice, and Skallhild’s lip curled.

“Gellir. And in what spirit did you take Odd’s silver to award a slave’s ransom for my father’s honor?”

“If the peace must be extended over ground to be kept, we will extend it,” said Thorarin, taking another step closer to her. “If it must be extended into time, we will extend it there as well. But know this: on my honor and in front of these witnesses, I swear that you have broken the peace and will be tried as if you had not taken the ten paces to clear yourself of these grounds.”

That could only mean one thing. Skallhild set her jaw. “Pass your sentence, then,” she called. “I quit these shores. I can hope for no justice from a court that has already proven it offers none.”

She left with nothing more than she was carrying, leaving even her cowl on the ground behind her. If they meant her to leave all that was soft and warm behind her, by all the gods, she would show them that she had.

 

“Skallhild…”

“I won’t be stopped, Mother. I’m leaving as soon as the boat is packed. I won’t drag Jónakr into this; he’s a king, and that would make it a war, not a feud, and I will not settle for a war.”

“Skallhild…”

“Would you have been satisfied as Atli’s wife, if your mother had asked you to stand still and take what had been given you?”

“Svanhild! You underestimate me.” Gudrun’s voice was sharp. Skallhild looked up at her for the first time. Gudrun continued, more softly, “I am so proud of you. But I think I will not see you again.”

Skallhild’s hands stilled as well. “Do you think I will be successful?”

“I do not know. I only wanted to ask if you knew where you are going.”

Skallhild kicked the box she had been packing closed and crossed her arms, as if that would lend her answer weight. “Ireland.”

“Ireland? Where you have raided so often? You think you will find welcome there?”

“How happy do you think Domnall ua Néill will be to do a little raiding himself?” Skallhild asked. Gudrun looked away. When, after a moment, Skallhild stepped closer to her and turned her face so that their eyes met, Gudrun’s were wet with tears.

“I cry with joy,” Gudrun said, daring her to argue.

“All the same, I think that you are right. One way or another we will not meet again. And… if I am to die… I would rather it were sooner, and in the cause of vengeance.”

“Everything dies but one’s name,” Gudrun whispered, and turned away so that Skallhild would not hear her say, “even honor.”

She heard anyway, but she did not think on it further until she had set sail for Ireland, returning on a boat far smaller than the one she had arrived with. What need had she of a raider’s boat when she could take no raiders with her, when even if she could it would only harm her chances of a parley with Domnall?

Everything dies, even honor. Sigurd had been Gudrun’s honor, and Skallhild the last trace of it, broken and reforged thrice over. Skallhild would die; what further use would there be for Gudrun to live?

Skallhild clung to the mast of her little boat and fixed her course. The weather stayed fine, with a stiff breeze to speed her in the right direction; Njörd approved her purpose. Well, she would not die in vain.

 

The Irish were a greedy people; they had fixed their law such that any boat that stranded on their shores, manned or no, was counted flotsam. Skallhild had seen them try to claim this law before; previously, she had been in charge of those who slaughtered all who came near the boats until the Irish grew tired of losing men in the pursuit. Now when she drew up on the shore she set camp and waited for them to approach. Her boat was too small to draw a large crowd, but sooner or later someone would come.

It was a small party, disappointingly so, a man and his son - if they had been of Skallhild’s people, he would have only just started thinking of taking his son to the Thing. Her brother Hamdir's age, then, but none of Hamdir’s courage or his noble features. Skallhild saw them hesitate when they saw the smoke of her fire, and then come closer anyway, cautiously, armed with clubs. Skallhild smirked and set her finer weapons down on the far side of the fire.

When he saw them, the man pushed his son abruptly behind him, in the manner of threatened parents everywhere, and Skallhild was careful not to make a move. He inched closer, until he could touch the weapons with his toes, kick them backward to his son with one foot, all the while keeping an eye on Skallhild. She watched him as if she did not know his language and could only offer the weapons.

When they were safely out of her reach, he crept closer and, carefully and slowly, began laying out the law. Skallhild interrupted before he could get to the right to kill her if she protested.

“I know the law," she said in his language, and the man sprang backward. Skallhild knew her skill was nothing to be admired, a coarse grasp of grammar and a shaky handle on accent, but she smirked a little anyway. “It’s yours for the taking, though you won’t find much of value aboard. Those weapons are the best you’ll find - and they’re payment, not scavenge.”

“You’re in no position to bargain.”

“Do you think I couldn't take them back from you even now?” Skallhild asked. What was he, a fisherman? Had he fought a day in his life, or did he spend all his time on his knees before his pale god? She made her point by standing up, so that her sea-cloak fell away from the curves of her father’s armor. Perhaps no one here would recognize Sigurd’s mark, but they would know the crafts of war when they saw them. “They're payment for when you take me to your king. He’ll want to see me.”

“Jetsam, meet with our king?” He scoffed at her. Skallhild regretted that the fire was large enough she could not make him regret his disrespect. Though she might, if she were swift, kill him and leave the boy to guide her.

“He’ll see me,” Skallhild promised, “and when he hears what I have to offer, he will grant me better weapons than those.”

She watched him roll that over in his mind, the metal-greed and the worry for his son. After a long pause, he nodded. Skallhild nodded back, one brief sharp jerk of the head.

“You’ll help us pull the boat in,” he said. “Get her stowed before we leave.”

“Then I take my shield back,” Skallhild said. The wooden shield was largely worthless in this wood-rich land, and she would feel better with some armament.

“You’ll only pay it back to us for provisions for the journey,” he said.

“As you say,” said Skallhild. “Are we going to stand here all day or get the boat pulled ashore?”

He was wrong about the payment; Skallhild well knew how to carve a spear with just the eating knife left at her side, and she could fish in streams well enough to feed the three of them. There were only three; the boy’s mother had died in church. She found that out when she taught the boy to carve a fishing spear, the afternoon before he tried to steal her knife while she slept and nearly died for it.

She did not spare him for his own sake. She simply did not need Irish blood on her hands when she went before the king. The Irish could be strange about men’s deaths, even boys as worthless as this one. It had something to do with their god.

She almost jerked the man closer to her one last time to ask him what the king’s name was. That was vanity; she knew the king's name. She had met him in battle more than once before, when he took his army - always too little too late - to meet her raiding party on the shore. She knew his face, too, though not so well-groomed as it appeared in court, and it seemed odd to see it away from the confines of armor and untouched by blood.

It would have been wise to hang around a while and divine his purposes, or to wait her turn to see him. Wise and cowardly. Instead she followed orders until she was in his fort, surrendered even her shield to the over-cautious guards, and then broke rank and propriety and all the rules of engagement she had been told and approached the king where he stood prattling with his stable master.

“Domnall uá Neill,” she said. He looked up at his name, scowling, and scowled deeper when he saw her. “You’ll hear me.”

“Why would I?” he asked, which proved he was in a tolerant mood despite the frowning. “I don’t know your name or origin or what you want, and I don’t care to.”

“You’ll know it soon enough,” Skallhild said, and threw back her hood for the first time since setting foot on Irish shores. She looked expectantly at Domnall.

“I said be quick, I don’t have time for every peasant with a poached pig to throw a drama for me.”

“My name is Svanhild Sigurdsdottir, lately known as Skallhild; I have in recent years led the majority of the raids upon your shores, set villages and monasteries to fire, murdered your people for entertainment, and all in the pursuit of that silver your people profess to shun. I’d be at it still, were it not for the traitorous events that have transpired of late - and it’s those that bring me to you.”

Domnall’s hand flashed up when she said her name, and he did not move after that, standing with that one gesture between his guards and her life as Skallhild lifted her chin to bare her throat to anyone who might wish to put a bolt in it. After a while, the moment stretching, she lifted her hands and unfastened her cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and began stripping off her armor, piece by piece.

“Hold,” said Domnall, and Skallhild held, as if his soft voice could command her. “Among your people this is considered honorable, is it not? Presenting yourself to be held accountable?”

“I would never hide my actions,” Skallhild spat.

“I suppose that was what I was asking,” said Domnall. “And what brings you here, instead of anywhere else your ship could take you?”

“I could have sailed home and remained a princess in my mother’s court,” Skallhild agreed. “I came here to offer you a chance to return the favor my people have given you time and again. I can lead a party to the best raiders’ hall and burn it to the ground, if you but give me the men to lead.”

“I think if I questioned you, you would kill me before you would let me doubt your honesty,” said Domnall, his hand still raised to his men. Slowly, he curled the fingers, and the drawn bows lowered.

“I would die first,” Skallhild agreed. She did not yet stoop to pick up her fallen armor. “I am not likely to kill you with this little knife; I have seen you fight.”

“No,” said Domnall, as though that were not what was first on his mind. “Still - prove to me who you are. Laugh.”

“Laugh?”

“I have seen you twenty times in battle, and every time you were blood-streaked and wild, vaulting over your enemies’ bodies and laughing to your gods,” said Domnall. “Your pagan gods. So give me cause to recognize you, and laugh.”

“I do not follow every mewling order -“

Domnall’s fist came up without warning and caught Skallhild in the face. She moved with it automatically to cushion the blow, ducked beneath it and came up with her own strike, sending the breath right out of Domnall’s body. It occurred to her afterward, after the satisfying gust of air escaped the grin of battle, that that had been an incredibly stupid thing to do.

“Don’t shoot!” Domnall wheezed, trying to uncurl from where Skallhild had hit him. “A good blow, my word, and in good faith! You are who you say you are - I’d recognize that laughter anywhere!”

Skallhild frowned, but so far as she could tell, she was not dead yet. “You bless me, trickster?” she asked her own god in her own language. “What good have I done you before? Well, I will pay it back.”

“You’re welcome here,” said Domnall, offering her his hand. “You’ll have your men. But you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, in language and expression.”

“As you say,” said Skallhild slowly.

 

Skallhild may or may not have been satisfied with her command of Irish, but she knew how to lead men. These were a little strange, their values contorted, but they perked up like any others when she promised them treasure, although they tried not to show it. Skallhild ignored their reluctance, played on their loyalty to Domnall - which they all professed was well-deserved - and took her turn at the oars. She could see Domnall watching her for the whole sea voyage - and before that, when they were gathering the men and ships. He was courteous when they spoke and deferred to her command, and he…

He treated her like a lady. Even his ring-giving - a tiny finger-band, which was appropriate for Skallhild’s shaky position in his court, but insulting to both of them in its stinginess - but even that had some mark of, of lace, when Skallhild’s life was all mail now. His every gesture - Skallhild was used to civility and respect from her men, but Domnall was not her man, and the way he offered these gestures was not that of Skallhild’s equals at home, nor something she would expect from or to her half-brothers. It made her bristle at first, and redouble her efforts to win his respect, his acknowledgment of her prowess, but after that… She liked being treated as a lady. She missed it. She had said farewell to that life the first time she touched Ireland’s shores, and now she caught herself thinking that it was something she had left there that the country might yet give back to her.

Well, it might if she would let it, and that was a question for later, for if she even survived. First there was the task at hand; after that she could give herself over to ideas of being handed out of ships again instead of leaping forward blade first. Now was the time to find the way by sunstone, the bay by memory, the hall by drawing a crude map in the sand at Domnall's feet. When she looked up he did not smile at her; he gave a brief nod of confirmation.

“We go by night,” she said. “Six days from now.”

“Why then?”

“It’ll give me time to teach your men the lay of the farm so that they can get into position without rousing everyone,” Skallhild said. She did not mention that in six days there was a harvest feast, one at which it was tradition to pay all debts from the summer raiding season - or to acknowledge them if, like a life-debt, they were not payable. Odd would have Gellir and Egil by, if not the other judges as well; if they waited until then, Skallhild would call her vengeance sure, leave the Irishmen to find their own way home. If she later heard that Domnall had survived, perhaps then she would send him the message single princesses sent unmarried kings.

“And until then?”

“I’ll take men out in groups to show them their places,” Skallhild said. “You know your men best, but I suggest…”

He listened to her. Skallhild thought his men might do as she said even if he did not; she knew what she was doing with them, and she had promised them treasure. She showed them where they might find fish - it was good they were not staying for more than a week, or they would not last long; as it was, they would be hard pressed to get home before winter, though that was no concern of Skallhild’s - and took his men out as promised, and gathered dry wood for tinder. The six days gave them time to adjust to a night schedule, and Skallhild learned to rise early so that she could hide herself in the hills above Odd’s farmstead and watch for the arrival of her enemies.

They came on the fourth day, and Skallhild was on tenterhooks for the next two days worrying they might leave early, that she had miscalculated the days, or that she had lost track of one some time between here and Ireland. They did not leave, though, and the night of the festival she kept watch as the farm slowly faded into darkness and quiet. Then she skidded down the slope to Domnall and gave his messenger the word.

She had the first kill of the night, slinking along the wall toward the hall and coming upon a man too drunk to make it all the way to the privy. It was too easy to rise in front of him and shove her blade across his unguarded midriff. She took his weight in her arms as he fell and passed it off to Domnall, who had insisted on being the one accompanying her.

“Hold this,” she said.

“What - you killed him?”

“Yes, as I will kill everyone in that hall tonight, or had you forgotten our plan?” Skallhild hissed. “Come on, we’ll miss our cue.”

“It was swift of you, that's all,” Domnall said - lied - and eased the body to the ground. He stepped over it as Skallhild scurried up to the house, pressed against the wall, and gave an owl's cry. After a moment, a passable imitation of her own call came back to her: her men, with less far to travel and with no one to kill on the way, were in place, the doors barred.

“Fire,” Skallhild murmured, and Domnall passed her the bucket of coals he had been carrying. Skallhild opened it, shoved her tinder in, and watched the flame grow. It did not take much urging to get it to the point at which she could feed it the house’s thirsty thatch, and then Domnall was tugging her backward as the flame leapt.

It was not long after that that the first men inside woke and shouted. They would race for the doors, Skallhild thought, half expecting to find them barred; they had all heard the stories, they knew what a house fire after an insult meant. They would go for the second exit, the hidden one she had spent two days finding, and - there was a dull thud - yes, they had found it too was barred. And then they would go back to the first entrance, and try to break it open, and find it guarded as well, with the men Skallhild had left behind following the fire’s beacon to reinforce their companions, should it even be needed.

It was for this that she had needed men, those many exits keeping her from firing the house alone. Well, that and that once declared an outlaw anyone would have killed her before she could come close enough to set the house ablaze. It was not lack of skill or knowledge; Skallhild trusted herself with a blade, and she had ridden these fields often as a youth, though she had rarely had cause to ride to Odd’s farm, where no one waited for her. She would not have dreamed, then, that one day she would stand and watch a neighbor’s house burn and smile with satisfaction knowing that he would not be able to escape.

“This is… not what I expected,” said Domnall beside her. Skallhild glanced at him, her face warm with the fire’s flickering, the burgeoning screams of men as it became more difficult to escape burning.

“You wanted something more glorious?” Skallhild asked. "Something in which your men would more likely die?”

“Not this," said Domnall. If the light had been better, Skallhild might have accused him of looking ill, but nothing could be proved in the dark.

“There will be plenty of treasure left after this,” Skallhild assured him, and turned back to the flames. "My mother once burned down a hall like this. I always wondered what it looked like.”

Domnall was certainly looking at her strangely now. A coward, Skallhild wondered, and a king? He ought to abandon those precious little follies his caretakers had allowed him. As well invite Olaf Peacock to take his throne as Domnall’s father had suggested.

Perhaps she would not send him an offer of her hand. Perhaps she would live an old, scarred warrior the rest of her life. It was little more than she had expected.

After a time the screams died and she turned back to Domnall. “We can leave now," she said. “No one will come out after this. And it would be best to be away before someone comes to see what happened here.”

“They’ll find our tracks.”

“Then whatever other raiding you want to do, you’d best do quickly,” Skallhild said. “The winter storms will be coming soon anyway.”

 

Jónakr always had a trading ship sent here in the fall. Gudrun had promised to pay for a place aboard for Skallhild, and for the ship to wait until she reached it. It would be just a few farms away, at the next bay, the one they had passed over looking for a more subtle place to dock the ships. Skallhild only pretended to go to sleep after the hall burnt, and as the sun was coming up she gathered her things and set out for the ship waiting for her. There was the broad moor to cross with the large rock in the middle, the one that had never quite found a name that stuck. She had met friends there many times, and she planned to stop there to sleep, where she would be well away from Domnall and his men.

The hollow she remembered was still there, still dusty and warm from the teenagers sleeping in it, in the afternoon or at night, together or alone. Settling into it felt like settling into older days, as if she were only waiting for Kjartan to appear, and Skallhild, her heart still light from the business she had completed, curled up and settled in for the unplagued dreams she deserved.

She dreamt of fire and screaming, and woke in a sweat, not sure if she was afraid or haunted or just pleased with her work in some way she did not know how to recognize. It felt like the aftermath of her first raid, before she had learned to stifle her screams so men would not guess that she regretted her part in the raids, that she was weak. She had thought she had grown past that.

She tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but the sleep wouldn’t come; there was a jittering running all through her bones, and she could not find a position that would still it. At last she got up and climbed the rock, thinking that perspective would either clear her mind or convince her it was time to move on.

What she saw instead was a cluster of Irishmen, their armor marking them distinctly as outsiders, crossing the moor toward her.

What use had Domnall for her now? She cursed and glanced across the moor - but it was a long, open way to town, and she could not run faster than they could, the ones who had slept the full night. She should have anticipated this, thought that Domnall would either want revenge on her as well or to keep her knowledge for another marvelously successful raid on her father’s people. Now here she was, alone on the heath, and there would be no better place to make her stand then here with the rock to guard her back.

She should have brought a bow. She had nothing long-range to pluck them off with as they came. Spitefully, she ducked down to that pleasant hollow and opened the pack she had brought with her. She had stolen a full round of cheese from Odd; she ate it all, sitting there as she waited, one bite after the next, not for nourishment but so that it would not be available to anyone after they had killed her. She sketched a raven in the dust where she had curled, wondering if she should have left a bite of cheese for the valkyries that would come for her. They would come; she did not know if what she had done was right, but it had been honorable.

Then she put on her father’s armor and took up the sword and spear that Domnall had given her, and the shield of her own that still bore the dragon emblem. She ran a hand over her naked head, feeling the ridges of the rough-sealed wound that she had first gotten in Domnall’s land. Maybe it was right that it would be his men that would kill her body here, they who had killed her future in their own land.

She was ready for them when they came, waiting as a hero would have, spear stuck firmly in the ground beside her. She wrested it free and stabbed the first unwary man who failed to see her in the rock's shadow. She pulled it free of his falling corpse in time to parry the stroke of the next, and for a while she fought well that way, the length of the spear giving her reach over her foes. She killed one more before the spear broke, or was stuck in his body; she knew only that it was stuck, and she did not have time to wrench it loose before she must parry again, and so she stepped back, pressing against the surface of the rock, and drew her sword.

They would do well to name the rock after her, Skallhild thought, as she thrust and parried, as she took the first cut across her arm and the second down her thigh. In the sharpness of the pain, she wondered which name they would choose. Then she saw Domnall and she thought if she could kill him, it would all be worth while; if she could stop that smiling face that had seemed so courteous as he escorted her across the sea. She lunged out away from the rock, left her shield behind blocking one last strike, and if her sword had been a spear, oh, how sweetly Domnall should have died.

She felt one stroke strike her middle and cut through the armor, the force of its swing meeting the opposite force of her own lunge; she knew that someone came from behind, now her back was unguarded, and drove something in her back while it was unprotected. She knew her sword was aimed sweet and true for smiling Domnall, and she felt the bright lightning spark of its touch against him; but then she was too busy worrying about her own death to consider whether she had brought him to his as well.

There were, after all, neither ravens nor valkyries. This did not come as a great surprise.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Historical Notes**
> 
> The geography here does not work at all. Sigurd is from around Wurms; there's no reason for Skallhild to spend her childhood in Laxardal except that the Laxdælasaga is my favorite.
> 
> No woman would become a warrior like this, and I doubt anyone would have worn a cowl in this period.
> 
> The Althing has been known to turn into a brawl between feuding families (see Njalssaga) so the idea of people being peaceful and not bringing weapons is... anachronistic. The process of the law, however, being largely cribbed from the Saga of the Confederates, is fairly accurate. Duels, not so much. The price for killing a slave was twelve marks of silver (less for a female slave, and a hundred marks for a free man), which is why it's so insulting to have that particular sum awarded.
> 
> There are a couple of references to my favorite verse of the Havamal, if you keep a weather eye out for them.
> 
> The bit about the Irish claiming beached ships as their own is straight out of the Laxdælasaga - it's a problem Kjartan's father might have had if his mother hadn't taught him Irish.
> 
> If you want a description of how exactly to burn down a hall with people inside, the Völsungasaga and Njálssaga are happy to help you; the short answer is, pay close attention to the main roof beam and any exits. Secret exits, especially hidden tunnels, are very traditional, though not ultimately helpful to people like Snorri Sturlusson.
> 
> According to the Laxdælasaga, Olaf Peacock, the father of Kjartan, was the grandson of the king of Ireland through his enslaved daughter. When Olaf revealed himself, the king made a big fuss and eventually offered Olaf the throne; Olaf said he was happy as an Icelander and furthermore would quite like to live to old age, something he was unlikely to do if he stole the throne from its current princes (Domnall and his brother).
> 
> Valkyries have this weird semi-mythical presence in the sagas, sometimes as strange battle angels, others as just, you know, the aristocratic pasttime of noble ladies before they marry.


End file.
